


Sherlock's Solution

by PipMer



Series: Prompts For 221b-Consolation2020 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Isolation, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Prompt Fic, Quarantine, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: Sherlock and John are stuck in quarantine. Against all expectations, John is the one who goes stir-crazy first. Sherlock has a unique solution to the problem.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Prompts For 221b-Consolation2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692322
Comments: 31
Kudos: 300
Collections: 221B-Consolation Fest 2020, Isolated Johnlock Collection





	Sherlock's Solution

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 221b-consolation fest, where fics are written in response to prompts from people who couldn't make it to 221b Con-- which this year, is everybody. See endnotes for the prompt that this fic is written for.

**Day 1**

John sighed happily, reclining in his chair with his feet up and his nose in a book. He couldn’t speak for his flatmate, but as for himself, he was quite happy to “self-isolate”. He and Sherlock had run themselves ragged during the previous two weeks, hunting down a smuggling ring. Fourteen days with nothing to do and nowhere to go sounded, quite frankly, like heaven.

Little did he know how soon that particular feeling would disappear.

**Day 2** ****

He was trying to concentrate on the article in his medical journal, but continued to be distracted by Sherlock’s frenetic violin playing. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Sherlock didn’t keep stopping to scribble something down, and then start right back up again, only more discordant. Irritation kept building up until finally he snapped.

“Sherlock, for god’s sake, could you stop that racket? Maybe work on your experiment or something?”

Sherlock twisted around, a frown on his face. “I’m composing. If it bothers you so much, perhaps you should isolate yourself in your bedroom.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over John, head to toe. He nodded to himself. He carefully set his instrument in its case and set it aside. As he walked past John’s chair on the way to the kitchen, he pressed his hand on his flatmate’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Tea, or beer?” he asked.

“Tea, please,” John replied. 

Sherlock continued on into the kitchen. “Perhaps it’s time for a James Bond break,” he called out above the sounds of tea preparation. “Which one are we on now?”

John cracked a small smile. He set his journal off to the side. “Octopussy.”

There was a brief pause in activity from the kitchen. “Intriguing title.”

  
  


Five minutes later the two flatmates were sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, their respective beverages in hand. Two hours later, their shoulders were touching as they slouched down with their legs spread out on the coffee table. Sherlock nudged John’s left foot with his right. John pressed his elbow lightly into Sherlock’s side. They cracked a smile at each other, before devolving into snickers at the ridiculousness on-screen.

By the time they bid each other goodnight, the tension they had both been feeling bled away, allowing them to get a restful night’s sleep.  
  


**Day 3**

“Okay, what in the world…?”

“John! I baked 10 different kinds of cake! Baking is just chemistry, more precise than cooking. I went through Mrs Hudson’s recipes and made all of your favourites!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath. “Sherlock. There’s no way the two of us are going to be able to eat *ten cakes*. Most will grow stale.”

“Then I’ll freeze them.”

“Our freezer can’t hold ten cakes!”

Sherlock frowned. “It’s the thought that counts.”

John sighed. “Yes. Yes it does. Look, Mrs Hudson has a large freezer, we’ll use that. Also, I need some air, I’m going for a run.”

Silence. “John.”

“Oh *hell*. I hate this quarantine! Fine, I’ll use Mrs Hudson’s treadmill. I need to … get rid of some excess energy.”

Mrs Hudson had been visiting her sister in Dorset when the ‘stay-at-home’ order had come down, so she was stuck there for the time being. The boys basically had the run of the entire building until Mrs Hudson was allowed to return.

“Fine. I’ll just clean up here, since I suppose I shouldn’t continue to bake any more items.”

John chuckled. “No. Probably not for a while.”  
  


John apparently had a lot more pent up energy to release than he thought. An hour later, it was all gone. He dragged himself up the stairs, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed on the sofa. He threw an arm over his face and regretted his life choices -- namely, overdoing the treadmill. He had a stitch in his side, and his feet hurt.

Ten minutes later, he woke up with his feet in Sherlock’s lap -- his *bare* feet. And they were being massaged. Sherlock Holmes was giving him a foot rub.

John blinked. Sherlock slowly turned his head and locked eyes with him.

“Problem?”

John cleared his throat. “No. ‘course not, why would there be?”

Sherlock shrugged. He turned his head to stare at the blank television screen. “One never knows, with you. I don’t always accurately predict your reactions.”

“Feels nice, actually. Thanks.” He wiggled his toes, smiling at Sherlock’s reaction. “Don’t have to stop. I like it.”

Sherlock’s hands stilled for a brief second before continuing their ministrations. “As you wish. Don’t fall asleep, we have Facetime scheduled with Mycroft in 30 minutes.”

John groaned. “Why? Surely he could just do a group text thing on our phones.”

“Because he wants to deduce from our appearances that we’re both still healthy and hale.”

John rolled his eyes. “I am a doctor, for god’s sake.”

“A no longer practicing one, but I concede it. And a most excellent one at that.”

John blushed. He put his arm over his face again and relaxed into the sofa, letting himself relish the feel of Sherlock’s hands on his skin. Who knew when he would experience such a thing again?

  
  


**Day 4**

To John’s amazement, Sherlock seemed to be coping *much* better than he himself was. Sherlock spent the better part of the morning researching something online, making interested ‘hmm’ noises every so often. The early afternoon was spent in the kitchen working on whatever experiment he had going on since before all of this. The rest of the afternoon he sat cross-legged on the floor, organizing one of his crime scrapbooks -- scrapbooks! -- humming contentedly the entire time.

John, however, was crawling out of his skin by mid-day. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find things to do. He owned several unread novels and unwatched DVDs. He tried his hand at some cooking. There was always cleaning and tidying to be done, bills to be paid. The thing was, all of those things bored him to tears within an hour. There was some repair work he could apply himself toward, if only he didn’t need to go shopping for supplies first. The last case he and Sherlock worked was already written up and published on his blog. He had answered every one of the several dozen comments it had garnered.

Truly, how was Sherlock keeping himself so entertained? He hadn’t even applied any nicotine patches during the past several days. He must have more imagination than John possessed.

Finally, at 6:04 pm, John snapped. He threw down his paperback and barked, “Bored!” in a truly unsettling imitation of his flatmate. He jumped to his feet and started pacing, rubbing his hands through his hair and creating a hedgehog like appearance. 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him from his spot on the floor. He ran his hand over the newspaper clipping he had just added to the scrapbook and calmly turned the page. 

“It’s only the fourth day, John. We’ve got ten to go.”

“Don’t I know it,” John growled as he made his second pass in front of Sherlock. “Everything’s the same, nothing’s new. How can you stand it?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Ah, how the roles have reversed. How about a board game?”

John stopped and looked down at Sherlock. “Not Cluedo.”

Sherlock smiled. “Not Cluedo.”

**Day 5**

_Several hours later_

“I’ve never played Monopoly all the way to the end before, until someone actually won.”

“First time for everything, I suppose.”

John giggled. “I bankrupted you.”

“Harrumph. I lost on purpose, otherwise the game would have dragged on into the next day.”

“It *is* the next day”

“Technically, you are correct.”

They lay on their backs on the floor, pointed in opposite directions, heads touching. The night pressed unnoticed against the window panes. Colored money lay scattered around them. A fire flickered merrily in the gas fireplace. 

“So. Day Five.”

“Yes.”

“What shall we play tomorrow? Er.. later today?”

“We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

John stifled a yawn. Fatigue rapidly descended. He rubbed his eyes. “I think I’m for bed.” He flipped onto his stomach and looked down on Sherlock’s curly head. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his breaths slow and even. He couldn’t say later what possessed him to do it, but John gave in to the overwhelming urge, and reached out to ruffle said curls. Before he could register a reaction, John hopped up and walked briskly to the stairs. “Night,” he threw over his shoulder, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t call him out.

He didn’t. John felt both disappointment and relief.  
  


Their knees pressed against each other at the breakfast table. Sherlock shoved toast into his mouth as he scanned the newspaper headlines. This morning he wore his wine-red dressing gown over an AC/DC t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. The pyjamas were worn so thin that John could feel Sherlock’s knobby knees quite distinctly against his own. John swallowed hard.

Sherlock glanced over the newspaper at John.

“All right?”

John blushed and ducked his head. “Sure,” he mumbled, taking a hurried sip of his coffee.

Silence reigned for several minutes before Sherlock calmly stated:

“I think we should kiss.”

John spluttered, inhaled his coffee and snorted it out his nose. “What??”

Sherlock turned the page and continued scanning the words in front of him. “When you’re not in a steady relationship, you tend to date on average once every ten days. At this point, it’s been almost thirty. You are a romantic at heart, and a man of action. You crave some form of physical intimacy, and when you don’t get it you become restless and agitated. Combine that with current circumstances, during which you’ve been cooped up for days with limited ways to release all of that pent up energy, not to mention that the methods available to you are predictable and boring, then of course it’s understandable that your frustration would soon reach an unsustainable level. You’re not gay, but you clearly find me aesthetically pleasing, as evidenced by the way your pupils dilate and your respiration increases when you look at me for longer than five seconds. I therefore offer you the means to relieve some of that tension. You like kissing; in fact, you’re very good at it. I don’t mind, as long as it’s tastefully done. No tongues down throats, that sort of thing. I suggest - “

“Sherlock.” John had finally got his mind back on track enough to coherently respond. He huffed out a small laugh. “Are you suggesting that whenever I start feeling a bit -- antsy, that I just - what, walk up and snog the life out of you?”

“Only if you want to.”

John snorted. “All right, stop. Is this an experiment?”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you like. Finding out what works, through trial and error. If it doesn’t relax you, then we can stop doing it.”

“No strings attached? It’s over when our quarantine is over? No expectations other than….passing the time?”

“Problem?”

“No, just… making sure we’re both on the same page. Just kissing, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. He still hadn’t made eye contact with John. “It’s up to you. Whatever you want.”

John stared. Surely Sherlock couldn’t mean -- he didn’t know what he was offering. John was determined not to take advantage.

“Okay. But anything you’re uncomfortable with, stop me.”

Sherlock scoffed. “John. When have you known me to do something I’m uncomfortable with?”

_When you gave your best man speech. When you practically planned my wedding. When you stepped off the roof of Barts to save my life._

“Point taken.”

  
  


**Day 6**

John did enjoy kissing, but he enjoyed other things just as much. Caresses, cuddles, hair stroking, backrubs…He wondered if those things were on offer as well. Kissing was just the icing on the cake, the epitome of intimacy. Short of sex, of course, but John didn’t know if he’d *ever* wrap his head around that when it concerned Sherlock, so best leave it on the back burner for the time being -- the *very* back burner.

Nothing happened the day Sherlock made his offer, other than a few shoulder clasps throughout the day. The next morning, John screwed up his courage. He came into the kitchen and walked straight up to Sherlock, who was facing the kettle with his back turned.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock stiffened. He turned, and John’s heart almost broke at the tentative (hopeful?) look on his face.

John smiled. He reached up and cupped Sherlock’s face, stroking those attractive cheekbones with his thumb. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, and his head dipped.

John kept his eyes open as he placed a soft, chaste kiss on Sherlock’s dry, chapped lips. It only lasted a second, but a spark of desire jolted down his spine at the contact. Keeping his reaction in check, he drew back and watched Sherlock slowly come back online. Intense fondness washed over John. He was in big trouble, and that was after just one kiss.

“Was that okay?” John asked.

Sherlock blinked. “Yes.” 

John swept his hands down Sherlock’s arms, and squeezed his elbows. “Good.” John stepped back. He cleared his throat. 

What now? He wondered. Sherlock’s expression was carefully blank as he continued to watch John. John started to think he had made a terrible mistake, even though it had been Sherlock’s idea in the first place.

Sherlock quirked a brow. “Not bored now, are you?” he asked smugly.

  
  


**Days 7 - 11**

Kissing. So much kissing. From brief pecks on the cheek, to prolonged snogging sessions on the sofa. Sometimes with tongue, sometimes closed-mouth. Never tongue-down-throat level, per Sherlock’s limits. The kissing often came with lingering touches, caresses and embraces. It was all… actually quite lovely, John thought. Even though hands remained above the waist and postures upright. John was *not* going to take advantage.

What was surprising was that, more often than not, Sherlock was the one who initiated. He seemed to sense whenever John was hovering on the edge, ready to either start climbing the walls or clawing his eyes out. It didn’t always involve kissing, either. During one memorable episode, Sherlock stopped his study of whatever was under his microscope and wordlessly guided John to the couch. He sat them both down, then wrapped John in a firm hug. John was shocked for a few seconds, then melted into the embrace with a sigh of relief. They sat like that for five minutes without speaking; just softly breathing into each other’s necks. Every so often Sherlock rubbed a hand down John’s back. Afterwards, Sherlock got up without a word and resumed his experiment like nothing had happened.

It was lovely and heartbreaking all at the same time.

And decidedly *not* boring.

John could get used to this. He almost didn’t want quarantine to end. 

Almost.

  
  


**Day 12**

  
  


Then the day arrived when it all came to a head. Honestly, John was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. 

Without really planning on it, John found himself stretched out on the sofa with his head in Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock held his phone in one hand scrolling through his twitter feed, while the other hand carded through John’s hair and periodically massaged his scalp. John’s eyes were at half mast as he stared at the telly without really registering what was on screen. Sherlock’s humming of the melody to his latest composition floated almost unnoticed through John’s mind, background to the feel of Sherlock’s skin against his own, pushing John from mere drowsiness to the edge of sleep.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the next thing he knew he was flat on his back with an armful of Sherlock Holmes, who was lying on top of him and kissing him with the sweetest, most lingering, most erotic kiss that John had ever received in his life. He found his hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair and giving small tugs every so often, resulting in delicious sounds issuing from his flatmate. Sherlock’s hand wandered underneath John’s jumper and tweaked his nipples, causing John to arch and almost tumble off the sofa. 

“Christ, Sherlock,” John groaned, recapturing Sherlock’s mouth and trying to give as good as he was getting. He had no idea what Sherlock’s sexual or romantic history consisted of, but sex most *definitely* didn’t alarm him.

_Sex._

That thought was like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. At the same time, he became aware of the fact that he and Sherlock were _frotting_ against each other, and when had _that_ happened?

Even though Sherlock evidently knew what he was doing, John was *not* going to take advantage. He wasn’t. He had done enough of that back in his youth, garnering him the nickname ‘Three Continents Watson’. It was not a label he held with pride.

“Sherlock,” John tried, only for Sherlock to plunder his mouth with his tongue, coming dangerously close to breaking his own rule. John managed to turn his head to the side, only to get that tongue in his ear.

“ _Gah!_ Sherlock, stop. This isn’t… Sherlock!”

John tugged on Sherlock’s hair, rather harder than he meant to. Sherlock looked down at him, eyes narrowed and an aggrieved expression on his face. His lips were swollen, and the colour was high on his cheeks. 

“John. You said you would stop if I asked you to. I’m not asking you to stop. In fact, I insist on the opposite. Take off your jumper.”

“Sherlock.”

“John. We’ve only got two more days before this ends, do let us make the most of it, yes?”

John’s heart sank into his stomach, where it promptly turned into a ball of ice.

He pushed Sherlock off and sat up, tugging his jumper back into place and smoothing down his hair. He scrubbed a hand over his face, and gave Sherlock a sheepish look.

“I can’t… I’m sorry, Sherlock. I realise from my history you were expecting a different kind of reaction, but -- I don’t do casual sex. Not anymore. Not since… well. Since before Mary, to be honest. Kissing and touching is one thing, but -- unless the sex _means_ something, as in moving towards a committed romantic relationship, then… I’m sorry. “ 

Sherlock drew himself up, armour settling into place. He blinked, and all arousal fled from his face. As if it had never been. He donned his trademark haughty expression, shifting away from John and creating “acceptable” space between them. It was, frankly, quite terrifying how quickly he could change personas. It left John wondering what was real, and what was mimicry.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, tone bland. “I suppose it’s served its purpose. Like I said, only two more days. We should be able to survive until then.” He graced John with that fake smile that John had come to hate over the years. “As for me, I’ve still got some cold cases that Grant gave me a few weeks ago. Shouldn’t take me long to get through them.” He bounced up off the sofa and clapped his hands. “So. Best get cracking.”

Sherlock went into his bedroom and shut the door. He didn’t come out for two days.

  
  


**Day 14**

John spent the next two days fairly sure that he had ruined everything. He should never have taken Sherlock up on his offer. He had no doubt that Sherlock could keep everything compartmentalized, but John couldn’t. Not when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He had been in love with his flatmate for so long, that there had never been a question of John turning Sherlock down. It was like offering him the chance to walk the battlefield again, maybe even wander onto a minefield. John never could resist the danger.

And now, where did that leave them? At best, a strained friendship. At worst, a lost home.

“John. Stop thinking, it’s annoying. You see, but you do not observe.”

John snapped his head up from contemplation of the carpet. He narrowed his eyes as he took in Sherlock’s appearance. The detective was dressed in his signature black suit and pristine white shirt. His hair was perfectly styled, down to the last curl. He looked tired yet alert, eyes bright and posture erect. John saw the confidence in the way he held himself, but also his vulnerability in the way he clasped his hands behind his back. That was always Sherlock’s tell, keeping his hands out of sight to hide the nervous fidgeting.

“Hey Sherlock. Nice of you to make an appearance. Only twelve more hours to go, and you’ll be free to hassle Molly and Greg again. It’ll be nice, yeah?” John was desperate to continue the small talk, anything to keep Sherlock from saying what he had clearly spent two days working himself up to say.

“Solve any of those cold cases, then?”

Sherlock blinked. His expression remained impassive. “I’ve spent the last two days thinking, eliminating my initial hypothesis, re-interpreting the data, and coming to a conclusion. I’ve also decided that it’s best to just get this over with -- rip the bandage off, so to speak.” He took a deep breath in preparation for what was sure to be a classic Sherlockian monologue.

“Wait. Sherlock. Are you sure we can’t just… pretend the last few days never happened? Blank slate, post-quarantine. Just carry on like before. No expectations, like we agreed. Yeah?” John’s heart thudded in his chest as he waited for a reply.

Sherlock closed his eyes, then opened them to reveal steadiness and determination.

“John. I deduced that you had developed a romantic attraction to me within two months of our meeting. I knew that you would never act on it, so I never brought it up. During my time… away, I realised that what I felt for you was something more than friendship. I planned on pursuing you in a romantic fashion once I came back, assuming you were still attracted to me. Well, you know what happened after that. Therefore I decided to ignore my feelings, and it worked for a long time….until a few months ago, when I started noticing signs once again of your interest. I realised that, if you haven’t made a move in all these years, that you were very unlikely to do so unless I gave you a nudge. This quarantine seemed the perfect opportunity. Once you had a taste of what physical intimacy with me could be like, I was convinced that you would abandon your reservations and *finally* let yourself have what you wanted.

“I failed to take into account the possibility that you didn’t want the same thing I did. You said that you no longer had sex unless it was within the confines of a committed relationship, implying that you don't see yourself in one with me. But then I concluded that theory only fit *some* of the facts. The most likely explanation, one that fit *all* the facts, is that you're convinced your feelings aren't reciprocated. I should have known, given your lack of observational skills, that that was the case. But as it turns out, I also am loath to risk what I already have in favour of something new.”

John blinked. “Sherlock.” He took a step forward. “What, exactly, are you saying?”

“I would think that would be obvious.”

John took another step. “It’s not obvious to me.”

“That I want to be in a committed romantic relationship. With you.”

John smiled. “We’re both idiots, you know that?”

Sherlock frowned. “I wouldn’t go quite so far as all that.”

John tipped his head back and laughed. He tentatively reached out a hand, and smiled in what he hoped would be an encouraging manner. Thankfully, Sherlock returned the gesture. Their hands clasped, and John pulled Sherlock close. He tucked a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear. 

“Can I kiss you now?”

Sherlock huffed, mirroring John’s smile. “Yes, John.”

“It’s really too bad that you’re so dressed up and put together. Because I intend on taking you apart, right now.”

Sherlock grinned. “Do your worst, Captain Watson.”

  
  
  


**Weeks later, post-pandemic**

As soon as Angelo’s was able to re-open, Sherlock immediately made a reservation. He wore his purple shirt, John’s favourite. John wore his blue and white striped jumper, Sherlock’s favourite. They sat at their preferred table - by the window, where they spied on the cabbie that very first night. This time they both had full plates of food and full glasses of wine. The conversation flowed easily, just as it always had. But this time, their feet were entangled under the table. Occasionally one would lean over and give the other a peck on the cheek. Their eyes shone with not just fondness, but with love.

And when John requested a candle for their table, Angelo brought them two.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Friends to lovers Johnlock in quarantine. 14 days. Starts with casual touches cuz close quarters. Progresses to slightly more intimate touching: foot rubs, hair stroking. Turns out John goes stir crazy first. Sherlock deduces he needs an outlet, offers up no strings kissing and the like. Massive miscommunication and pining. Happy ending of course 😘


End file.
